


with bloodstained hands

by Mertiya



Series: Fire Emblem Missing Scenes [2]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Guilt, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Missing Scene, My Unit | Byleth Has Emotions, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-01
Updated: 2019-09-01
Packaged: 2020-10-04 11:04:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20469986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mertiya/pseuds/Mertiya
Summary: In the aftermath of the defense of Garreg Mach, Byleth grapples with what he's done.





	with bloodstained hands

**Author's Note:**

> hi i still haven't finished the game so here i am with more missing scenes

It isn’t unusual for Linhardt to have trouble sleeping. Well, at times when everyone else is sleeping, anyway. He’s often up nearly until dawn, working on whatever research problem holds his attention at the moment. He’s never really had what you might call a proper sleeping schedule, and tonight is no different. He found a particularly old history of crests in the library two days ago, and with the frantic rush to defend Garreg Mach, he hasn’t had time to open it until now.

He’s been reading for a few minutes with a cup of tea at his elbow, enjoying the candlelight vigil beneath the rising stars, when he thinks he hears a noise, a rough cry of some sort. At another time, he might ignore such a thing, but when they’ve just all been through a brutal battle, when it could be anything from an attacking monster to a wounded soldier Manuela missed, he doesn’t feel confident enough to leave it be, so he gets up with a sigh, shuts his book, and heads out to identify the source of the sound.

It’s coming from the Professor’s room. Linhardt stops with his hand on the door, uncertain. He wonders if he should go and get someone else. He’s not exactly the best person when it comes to comforting someone, and peering into the dim room he can see that Byleth is thrashing, clawing at his blankets. Nightmares, probably.

Linhardt hovers on the step for a moment longer, and then he sees that Byleth is actually starting to claw at his hands and wrists, and that means he has to stop dithering and do something. He flings himself onto the bed in what is probably the loudest, least graceful motion he could have come up with, not really realizing what a bad idea that is until Byleth sits up with a gasp and empty eyes, grabbing a dagger from underneath his pillow.

“Byleth! It’s me!” Linhardt gabbles desperately, and the knife stops just an inch away from his throat, quivering.

Those strange green eyes blink, and Byleth’s hand opens, letting the weapon fall, his face crumpling in a way Linhardt has only seen it crumple once before, five years ago—when—when—

Oh, yes, Linhardt is very out of his depth here and probably in danger of drowning. “You were having nightmares, I think,” he says.

Byleth nods, putting his face in his hands. “About Alois,” he explains, drawing in a shuddering breath.

“Ah.” Linhardt nods, biting his lip. “Yes.” There’s not much he can say about that, not when he’s been carefully avoiding the thought himself. He was there too, following Byleth as they ran desperately across the wooded field, trying not to look at the fiery gulf cutting them and Dorothea off from Edelgard and the rest. He was there when Byleth shouted to Alois to surrender and Alois refused. When Alois yelled at Byleth that Jeralt would be rolling in his grave, and when Byleth pulled the Sword of the Creator out of its sheathe, his face so desperate and far away. Linhardt was there when Alois fell.

“I tried so many different ways,” Byleth whispers. The shadows beneath his eyes are huge. “I tried and tried, but no matter what I did I couldn’t get him to listen, and I thought I’d go mad if I watched you die one more time—”

Linhardt blinks at that statement, but manfully resists the urge to question Byleth about it. Not the time. Even he can tell that.

Byleth takes another long, shaky breath. “Linhardt,” he says. “Am I a monster?”

Linhardt finds that he is blinking again. “No?” he says uncertainly.

“You hate bloodshed,” Byleth presses. “How are you still following me after—after that?”

“You’re not the only one shedding blood,” Linhardt points out. “It’s not as if Rhea was averse to using the knights to kill people. Even the students, sometimes.”

“Not people we knew,” Byleth mutters. He is staring down at his hands. “No—I understand.”

They sit in silence, because Linhardt still doesn’t know what to say. After several minutes of this, Byleth reaches out and puts a hand over Linhardt’s, just letting it lie there, gentle and a little questioning. Linhardt squeezes, because that one’s kind of hard to screw up, even for him, and he gets a small smile in return.

“Would you—” Byleth’s so strangely fragile right now. He’s been different since he returned, or maybe it’s Linhardt who’s changed, but this is different even from that. “I don’t think I can sleep alone tonight,” he says finally. “I don’t want to impose, but—could you—”

And Linhardt finds that he’s smiling. “You’re asking me to do the one thing I’m actually quite good at, so it’s not much of an imposition,” he points out. “Although please put the dagger somewhere else so I won’t get stabbed.”

Byleth’s eyes crinkle up a little at that. “Yes. Of course. Sorry.” He picks up the dagger and tosses it to the other side of the room, then almost shyly pats the bed beside him.

It’s large enough for the two of them, but just barely.

“Sorry,” Byleth apologizes again. “It’s cramped.”

Linhardt hums softly. “No trouble for me. You’re learning from the best, Professor.”

He gets a chuckle for that. Linhardt wriggles a little, curling up; then, suddenly daring, he rolls onto his other side and lets his head fall onto Byleth’s shoulder, watching through half-slitted eyes as Byleth’s cheeks flush red. It’s adorable, Linhardt thinks sleepily.

Unexpectedly, Byleth’s arm curls around Linhardt’s shoulders, and something warm presses into the top of Linhardt’s head. “Thank you,” Byleth breathes.

“Of course,” Linhardt yawns. “Always happy to use my talents for the good of my favorite person.” Oh, did he say that out loud? Oh well, he’s sleepy. So is Byleth. Byleth murmurs something else inaudible, and Linhardt smiles at the warm feeling rising in his chest. This is definitely going on the list of top ten naps he’s ever had. Even if the world is tearing itself apart, right now—they’ve got this.

No one can take that away.


End file.
